


Paris Pratique

by la_faerie



Series: Paris, je t'aime [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Louis is a priest, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:16:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_faerie/pseuds/la_faerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Louis begins referring to these meetings as rendez-vous not because he and Liam are going on dates, but because the French use rendez-vous to refer to any type of set meeting time. Meeting Liam under the red awning at La Coupole on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons around 5 pm is a rendez-vous in the same way that going to a dentist appointment is a rendez-vous. At least that’s what he tells himself.</i>
</p>
<p>The one where Louis is a priest working in France, and Liam is visiting Paris for the summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris Pratique

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cmdf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmdf/gifts).



> This was supposed to be just a one-shot because Any demanded Priest Louis fic. But then of course Liam got involved and a real story emerged, so here we are. Any, I just hope this doesn't disappoint.
> 
> This is blasphemous on so many levels, so let me issue a blanket apology to One Direction and to the Catholic Church. It's just that Louis often wears turtlenecks or his shirt collars buttoned all the way up, and the obvious logical conclusion of that is.... priest.
> 
> Thank you as ever to my partner-in-crime, Lindsay, who challenges me to be better every time.

Louis pulls on the wrought iron handle and props the door open with a worn brick, kept just inside for this purpose. A humid mist had been hanging over Paris all day, keeping everyone prisoner to its oppressiveness. It had finally just turned to relief in the form of a cool summer rain. Louis’ still surprised by how stuffy the old cathedral gets during the summer. The old stonework seems like it would be enough to keep the place cool, but it really isn’t. Since neither the French nor the Catholic church believe in air conditioning, he spends most summer days sweating it out in black trousers and black button-down shirt with the high collar.

It’s half past five, meaning he has an hour until Saturday evening mass. He should let the building air out, change into his robes, and also go over the readings since Père Nicolas always lets him take the lead with Saturday mass. He knows he really should attend to these things, yet he can’t help lingering in the doorway, tugging at his collar as he takes in the liveliness of boulevard Montparnasse. People are rushing up and down the sidewalk in both directions, some carrying umbrellas, walking umbrella-first bracing themselves against the weather. Others carry nothing, perhaps enjoying the sharp relief of a summer rain. 

Louis turns and faces the inside of l’Église Notre-Dame des Champs, looking straight up the aisle to the altar, remembering he needs to open a couple new bottles of table wine for communion, still thinks it’s a little bit hilarious and marvelous that he had just bought the wine at the supermarket, and blessed it. And that’s it, a simple blessing is all it takes to make any ordinary Monoprix wine acceptable for communion.

“Er—pardon, monsieur?” A low voice stammers out in a halting accent from behind Louis. He can already tell it’s a tourist, probably someone in need of directions. He tugs at his collar again out of habit as he turns around, and nearly chokes himself as he takes in the sight before him.

A boy—a young man, really—is facing him, evidently without an umbrella judging by his soaking wet state.

“Monsieur,” the young man stumbles over the French, his lips trembling ever so slightly. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Oui. Yes, I mean. I am English, actually.” Louis smiles, as his accent gives him away.

“Really, oh thank God!” The young man takes in his surroundings and blushes at his choice of language. Louis takes note of his English accent, can’t yet place it. “I mean, sorry. I just mean, I’m so glad. I think I’m lost, and my map got wet in my pocket.” He pulls some folded paper out of the back pocket of his jeans. It looks like the generic maps that sit stacked up on front desks at hotels. _No wonder he’s lost_ Louis thinks.

While the young man plays with his map, shifting it this way and that, trying to find the correct placement, Louis sneaks a further glance at him. He’s alarmed to find that his rain-soaked raglan shirt reveals rather a well-defined body: dark grey sleeves cling to his biceps, while unfairly translucent white fabric highlights defined muscles along his torso. His dark hair is cropped fairly close to his head, but it’s starting to curl where it’s long enough to do so from the rain. His shoulders are stupidly broad, seemingly occupying the entire doorway. Louis even thinks he spies a birthmark on his neck. 

Louis doesn’t really believe in tests from the Lord, thinking those types of stories are mostly scare tactics used to make the Brothers behave in Seminary. But he takes a step backwards all the same.

“My friend and I,” the young man begins, and Louis notes that this friend seems to be absent at the moment, “are staying near St. Michel. That’s the tube—er—metro station I’ve been using, anyway. I was trying to visit the Luxembourg gardens, but then, well...” he motions to the downpour outside. “Anyway, the thing is, I’m not sure which station I should be looking for now?” He looks up from his map, his face crinkling in an expression of pure puppy-dog confusion. Louis steps forward again, taking the map in hand. This is something he can help with.

“St Michel? You’re in luck, that’s quite simple. This street here is boulevard Montparnasse. Just keep walking that way,” Louis points out the door to the right. “You’ll run right into the station entrance, Montparnasse-Bienvenüe. It’s a huge station you can’t miss it, honestly. From there just hop on the four. It’s only a few stops to St Michel.” The young man’s shoulders relax at Louis’ words.

“You make it sound so easy,” he says, relief written all over his face.

“It is easy, I promise,” Louis assures, folding the map and handing it back over. “By the way, are you in Paris for awhile? If so, you should invest in a real map. A waterproof one.”

“Heh, you’re right, I should do something about this mess. I’m here for about two months with my mate on holiday.”

“Two months, eh? I’m jealous.”

“Jealous? But, you live here?” the corners of the young man’s mouth turn up in a shy smile, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to ask this question.

“Exactly,” Louis laughs. “I live here. I’d kill to be in Paris on holiday again. You really should make it to the jardin du Luxembourg at some point though. There’s a fountain where you can race miniature sailboats.” Louis isn’t sure why he keeps talking to this stranger, except that the young man’s eyes brighten up at the mention of the sailboats, and he likes seeing that. He wonders if he could make it happen again. “I should actually be getting ready for mass,” Louis says, mainly to remind himself. “But are you all set here?”

The young man’s eyes widen. “Mass, oh right. Wow, you actually are a priest.”

“Actually a priest,” Louis confirms, pointing to his Roman collar.

“Of course, yeah. It’s just, you look about my age? I’m on holiday before starting a full-time job, and you’re a priest! In charge of Mass and everything! It’s just funny to think about.” Louis chuckles, and watches as it looks like the young man is having an internal debate. After a pause it seems that he reaches a conclusion, as he holds a hand out to Louis, saying: “I’m Liam, by the way. I’m twenty-five. I turn twenty-six in August though.” Louis takes the offered hand and it envelops his own. Liam’s hand is cool and damp from the rain, and it makes Louis hyper-aware of how small and warm his own hand must feel in comparison.

“Hello Liam, who is twenty-six in August. I’m Louis. Père Louis.” He corrects himself. “I’m twenty-seven.” Liam gives his hand a shake, and smiles with his whole face, his brown eyes smooth and sweet like molasses.

“Nice to meet you, Père Louis, who is twenty-seven. I’m sorry for holding you up, but thanks so much for the directions. I really appreciate it.”

“It was no problem,” Louis gestures around the église. “It’s what we’re here for.”

“I mean it though, cheers!” Liam throws him one last smile before heading back out into the rain and disappearing into the Parisian crowd. 

_I mean it though_. Possibly a brummie accent, Louis thinks, unaccountably annoyed with himself that he can’t quite tell.

He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, fingers the rosary beads he always keeps in his right hand side, and thinks that he had meant it too.

+

It’s a week later when Louis begins to suspect that he might need to re-evaluate his opinion about tests from God being a load of shite. He’s seated at a sidewalk table (all the better to observe passersby) underneath the red awning of La Coupole with a copy of _Le Monde_ and a cool beer, when he hears a voice nearby.

“Oh, it’s you! The young priest. Hello!” He looks up to see a familiar set of broad shoulders blocking out his view of the boulevard. Louis is thankful he hadn’t been taking a sip of his drink at that moment because he probably would’ve choked and possibly passed out from shock. This is a danger he hadn’t considered of sitting out on the boulevard.

“Oh, it’s you, the lost English tourist,” he retorts. Liam grins down at him as though they’re old friends.

“Do you mind if I sit down? My feet are killing me.” _Very dangerous_ says a voice in Louis’ head. But he notices Liam’s carrying shopping bags, and remembers that being a tourist can be exhausting work.

“S’il vous plaît…” Louis matches Liam’s grin and motions for him to sit. The tables are crowded close together, this being Paris and all, and Liam actually takes a seat at the table next to Louis, placing his shopping bags on a chair in between them. Louis exhales, _a bit less dangerous_.

A waiter arrives to take Liam’s order. Liam blinks and then looks to Louis. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Il prend la même chose,” Louis tells the waiter, then turns to Liam. “It’s Abbé de Leffe beer, it’s good, but are you sure?” Liam nods.

“It’ll be fine, thanks. I’m always shit at ordering, French waiters make me so nervous. They look at you like they’re about to die of boredom while you’re speaking—”

“That’s just the French in general, mate,” Louis cuts in. “Don’t take it personally.” Liam laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I try not to go out to eat without my mate, Zayn—that’s who I’m here on holiday with—but he’s always keen to go to art museums. He’s going for his doctorate starting in the Autumn, something about the connection between Romanticism in art and literature. I don’t really know what that means, but it’s what he keeps telling me he’s working on, and evidently he has a lot of research to do. But I’m, well, I’m about to die of boredom myself. I mean, there’s only so much art I can take. I’m just—I’d just rather be here right now,” he says, relaxing back into his chair. 

“So you made an escape, eh?” Louis nods to the shopping bags between them. “Liam’s Day Out? Looks like you did well for yourself.” Liam starts poking through his bags, looking over the day’s purchases.

“Yeah, I swear H&M here has different stuff to what we have in England, it’s sick!” Louis suspects that it’s probably embarrassing how wide he’s smiling right now, but he can’t help himself listening to Liam ramble on so enthusiastically. “And my sister gave me a list of things to pick out for her at Mango, so I got some things for myself as well.” The waiter returns with Liam’s drink, pours the beer into the trademark Abbé de Leffe goblet. “Cheers—er—merci,” Liam stammers, as the waiter stalks away with a barely concealed eye-roll.

“You weren’t joking,” Louis is almost in awe, “you really are completely shit at French.”

“I’m hopeless with languages,” Liam admits. “Even with English, if I’m being honest.”

“You know, I teach the children in our parish a bit of English. The best way to start them off is to tell them how to say their name, their age, and their birthday. They can’t get enough of shouting at you in English about when their birthday is. But then, they’re mostly five and six years old.” Liam is testing out his beer. He gives the thumbs up, then uses his thumb to wipe some foam off his mouth.

“So,” he turns to face Louis “you’re a priest who teaches?”

“Yes, _les rencontres de catéchisme_. Like Sunday school. Except we hold it on Wednesdays. It’s actually the main reason I landed a position at such a nice parish. Notre-Dame des Champs is full of families, hence lots of children. At Seminary, they discovered I’m quite good with kids—well, I have four younger sisters, I never had much choice,” Liam raises his eyebrows at this and mouths _four_ like he’s never heard of someone having so many sisters. “Anyway, Père Nicolas is about two-hundred years old. Well, actually he’s only eighty, but he’s a grumpy old shit. He’s usually nice enough to me, but he’s completely over dealing with children. Luckily the kids love me—I teach them how to swear in English. And the parents can’t get enough of me, they call me _charmant, très charmant_.

“Charming?” Liam guesses.

“Correct,” Louis raises his glass “I’ll have you speaking French yet.” Liam sips his beer and thinks for a moment.

“Those parents must have a point,” he begins, “because you were actually bragging quite a bit just now. About how wonderful and perfect you are with kids and about much they love you. But I have to admit, on the whole, it was fairly charming.”

“Damn, I could’ve been so much more irritating,” Louis jokes. “I thought I’d spare you, but next time I won’t.”

“Next time, hmmm?” Liam smiles at him, with the hint of something verging on the conspiratorial. It makes Louis feel reckless.

“Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are slow for me,” he says, checking his watch. “You can usually find me here with a drink in front of me and something to read around this time.”

“Noted,” Liam says, also checking his watch.

The two of them sit in silence for a few moments, sipping their beer and taking in the city. People rush relentlessly in and out of the Vavin metro stop just in front of the brasserie. It’s a pure Parisian mess as everyone attempts to balance their Monoprix shopping bags while simultaneously digging through their Longchamps for metro cards and texting. But Liam is a point of stillness in the chaos. He has one arm thrown over the back of the chair between them, his hand almost reaching Louis’ elbow. He looks so at peace and comfortable, it makes Louis feel dizzy in a way he doesn’t think has anything to do with the Abbé de Leffe.

“So,” Louis begins, because he should probably stop staring at Liam if he isn’t going to say anything. “Now that I’ve bragged to you all about my charming self, it’s your turn. Tell me, what sort of job are you starting at the end of the summer?”

“I’m starting with a record label in London. What I’d really like to do is sing, but for now I’ll just be helping with the technical aspects of everything. I just finished a post-grad degree in music theory, and my mate, Niall, helped me land this job.”

“Music theory? That sounds legit fascinating, mate.” Liam shakes his head, and downs a big gulp of beer.

“Oh god no, it was kind of awful. I mean, really interesting, yeah. But, really difficult too. I couldn’t have done it without my friends literally pushing me to finish my work. I already told you Zayn is pursuing his degree further, yeah? He just does the school thing well.”

“So did this Zayn write your essays for you?” Louis asks with a wink.

“No! But not because I didn’t ask him. I may have badgered him actually. He never gave in though, the bastard.”

“Good man. I mean, terrible luck for you,” Louis pulls the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated pout. “But good for him.”

“You’ll have to meet him sometime.” Liam says it while he’s tossing back the last of his drink. He says it like it’s no big deal.

“Maybe. Sometime,” Louis says in a careful tone.

“By the way,” Liam adds, fishing out his wallet, “you’re not in your priest outfit today,” and this time Louis does choke on the last of his drink because _priest outfit_. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Obviously that’s why I’m wearing a button-down with a collar,” Louis gestures to the collar of his blue Oxford button-down. “So that you would still know me.”

“It worked,” is all Liam says, lining up a few euros on the table.

+

Louis begins referring to these meetings as _rendez-vous_ not because he and Liam are going on dates, but because the French use _rendez-vous_ to refer to any type of set meeting time. Meeting Liam under the red awning at La Coupole on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons around 5 pm is a _rendez-vous_ in the same way that going to a dentist appointment is a _rendez-vous_. At least that’s what he tells himself.

“You know what?” Liam begins. It’s their third rendez-vous, and he’s progressed to sitting at the same table as Louis now, their shoulders impossibly close, their hands brushing when they reach for their drinks. “I’m not really sure what to call you? Technically, I should call you ‘Father?’” He giggles a little bit. He’s on his second beer, when he usually only sticks to one.

“Technically, you ought to, yes. Father Louis is my name.”

“It’s just a trippy idea,” Liam shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever even called my own dad ‘father’ and I don’t know any other priests. Not any priests as young as you, anyway.” Liam keeps bringing up his age, which might annoy Louis if he thought it was because Liam disrespected him or underestimated him. But he knows what Liam means.

“I have an idea.” Louis leans in ever so slightly, knocking their elbows together. “‘Father Louis Tomlinson,’ that’s my full name now. But my best mate from home used to call me Tommo, and now he calls me Father Tommo. To be honest, sometimes he forgets the ‘Father’ out of habit. You could do that too, if you like.” Liam’s face is crinkled up in delight.

“Father Tommo! That’s sick, that is. Can I put you down in my mobile as Father Tommo? So bloody brilliant.” Louis feels himself blushing as he says yes, and gives Liam his number.

+

Paris isn’t the most affordable place to live, and quartier Notre-Dame des Champs—which the église belongs to—in particular is not cheap. With its convenient location near the jardin du Luxembourg, it’s a prime area for well-to-do families with parents who want to send their children to good schools and a nice neighborhood church.

Louis is lucky that some of the parishioners had banded together to help him find a passable flat in the area that he could also afford. He’s even luckier that he had ended up with something more than passable, a lovely flat on rue de l’Abbé Grégoire. In fact, he suspects that it wasn’t so much luck, but rather Monsieur de Clèves—who lives with his family in the large apartment below Louis—and his powerful connections at l’Hôtel de Ville who had finagled to get his rent lowered to a reasonable amount. And it really is reasonable for the space that he has: a living room, a master bedroom and a smaller guest bedroom. (In case one of his sisters wants to visit sometime.) It’s a gem of a flat, really, and Louis has settled in.

Still, for someone living in Paris, Louis is certain that he leads one of the most quiet lifestyles in the entire city. His social calendar consists of Monsieur de Clèves inviting him down on Friday nights to share a bottle of wine and discuss politics. He looks forward to these standing Friday night appointments because, in France, there’s always a lively debate about _something_. And because Madame de Clèves always makes sure he returns to his own flat with a tray of freshly baked madeleines or financiers. No, it isn’t glamorous, but it’s peaceful. He has fallen into it, lulled into a kind of serenity by the rhythms of his daily life.

Louis always recites a decade of the rosary to himself before going to bed in addition to prayers for his family and friends. He had picked up the habit in Seminary, thinks it’s a good one to stick with in order to keep a disciplined routine. It’s part of what had drawn him to religion in the first place, the sacredness of everyday rituals.

_Hail Mary_ Louis unbuttons his black shirt, _full of grace_ and removes the stiff white Roman collar. _The Lord is with thee_ Even though it’s warm in his flat, his skin breaks out in goosebumps upon meeting the fresh air. _Blessed art thou among women_ He unbuckles his belt, lets it hang undone at his waist as he combs a hand through his hair, and remembers to take off his watch. _And blessed is the —_ but a beeping noise interrupts, and Louis notices his mobile lighting up on his dresser. It’s an unfamiliar number.

 

_heyyy father tommooo! guess whoooo :)_

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Louis says it out loud.

_Are you drunk ?_ he sends back.

_nooope. and thats not a name, u have 2 keep guesssssingggg!!!_

Apparently Liam was being honest about his non-proficiency in English. He wonders if there’s anything Liam lies about.

_Your spelling… !! Are you certain you actually passed your degree ??_

_ohhhh preists got jokes!_

“Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death,” He’s already talking to himself, he might as well keep going. Louis sits down on his bed, feeling winded. He sends a simple:

_Bonne Nuit Liam x_

_goooooodnight :)_

Louis usually keeps his mobile on at all times in case of an emergency call from his mum or sisters, but tonight he switches it off before setting it on his nightstand next to his rosary beads.

“Amen,” he declares into the stillness of his bedroom.

+

Louis decides it’s about time to take Liam inside La Coupole for a proper meal.

“I feel terrible, we’ve been sitting outside all this time” he says, holding the brasserie door open, “when, actually, the inside of this place is a bit of a landmark.”

“I really don’t mind, it’s—” Liam is saying, but Louis just smiles and watches his jaw drop as he steps over the threshold and takes in the colorful interior of La Coupole. “—brilliant” he finishes. “It’s absolutely brilliant,” his eyes hungrily taking in the art deco chandeliers and the Cubist mosaics covering the walls. Louis takes in Liam, looking overcome, but downright pleased that this new world has been opened up to him. The French word _bouleversé_ comes to Louis’ mind: completely staggered. He’s struck with the urge to make Liam look like that all the time.

They order (that is, Louis orders) a bottle of Sancerre and an oyster platter with frites. Louis thinks the crisp wine, and the salty seafood and fries are the best tonic for the late July heat he’s ever encountered. Sitting across the table from Liam, chatting and watching his cheeks turn pink from the wine and the excitement of the conversation, well, it could be either a tonic itself, or something for which he’s going to need a tonic.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Louis says, having just ordered a cheese plate for after the oysters. “Your accent. I can’t place it. The thing is, sometimes you sound almost posh. Other times, there’s no other description for it, you sound distinctly brummie.” Liam slams his wine glass down on the table, causing the table next to them to stare.

“I don’t know what’s more outrageous, that you think I could be posh, or that you think I’m from Birmingham!”

“Let’s have it, then. Where does the mysterious Liam Payne hail from?”

“Wolverhampton, of course, you imbecile.”

“Oh, please forgive me!” Louis holds his hands out in supplication. “How dare I not recognize the great Wolverhampton right away!”

“Well what great city are you from?” Liam asks, rolling his eyes, certain that no one could outdo Wolverhampton.

“Doncaster,” Louis answers with a proud little smirk.

“Yorkshire, I knew it! You know, I wish we still had some food left so that I could throw it at you.”

“Have some patience, Liam. The cheese plate is on its way.”

Liam sits back in his chair, giving an exaggerated put-upon sigh, but he can’t keep it up and breaks into giggles immediately. Louis plays with their table setting for a moment, picks up his unused knife, and points it across the table.

“The fact is, you’re a bit of a chameleon, Liam.” He narrows his eyes in determination. “I’ll have you speaking like a Frenchman soon enough.”

 

Louis orders cognac for himself as an after-dinner drink and, while Liam declines anything more to drink, he points to Louis’ glass.

“So, I wasn’t sure before,” he asks, “but I suppose priests are allowed to drink?” 

Louis raises his glass to Liam, and then takes a considered sip. “This is France, who ever heard of a priest who doesn’t drink?”

“Well, and I noticed your hair. You’ve got— ” Liam makes a wavy motion with his hand, “stuff. Gel or something in it.”

“I know it’s very shocking,” Louis leans across the table, stage whispering, “but priests are indeed allowed to use a variety of hair products.” Liam points to Louis’ mobile, which is lying on the edge of the table.

“And iPhones. You’re allowed those.”

“Yes, and knives and forks. We’re allowed the latest in technology.”

“I’ll draw up a list, shall I? Things Priests are Allowed.”

“You should. I’m just a priest, you know, not a Benedictine monk from the sixteenth century. It’s not like I took a vow of silence.”

Liam waits a beat before replying. “Maybe that’s something you should consider.” Louis’ jaw drops and he’s the one feeling bouleversé now. Liam holds up his hands, shrieking, “I’m sorry, but you walked right into that one!” Louis doesn’t have a response because he knows that he really did.

He steals a covert glance around the brasserie to make sure no one is watching before throwing the remaining contents of the cheese plate at Liam.

+

A week later Louis finally meets Zayn. 

“Hey,” Liam says as they pay their bill at La Coupole, “can we pass back by the church? I told Zayn to meet me there, and I wanted to finally introduce you two.” They normally go their separate ways after their rendez-vous, as it’s easiest for Liam to hop right on the metro at Vavin.

“Alriiight,” Louis says the word slowly, trying to process the fact that Liam has been thinking about introducing him to his best friend. “Hang on, you do know that I don’t actually live at the église, right? I have other places to go, other things to do.”

“Really, I thought you lived in the belltower.”

“Oooh, Liam’s got jokes,” Louis nudges him with his elbow as they cross out into the street.

“Sometimes Liam has indeed got jokes,” Liam grins wide for a moment. “Okay, I promise never to refer to myself in the third person again.”

“You’ll be doing us all a favor, thank you,” They make it across the street and head toward the église. “You know,” Louis starts, “you could have told Zayn to meet us at the brasserie. La Coupole is famous, it’s where Joyce and Sartre used to write. I’m sure he’d love it.” Liam looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I didn’t want to,” he says, and edge to his voice. “I asked him to meet us at the church on purpose. I… it’s our thing. La Coupole is our meeting place.” Louis stops walking, just for a moment. He looks up at Liam, and, if he’s being perfectly honest, the only thing he’s thinking is _oh shit_. He nods because there’s nothing else to say. It _is_ their meeting place.

The person who turns out to be Zayn has his back turned toward them as they approach. Liam looks at Louis, putting a finger to his mouth and sneaks up, swatting the back of Zayn’s head, messing up his hair.

“Aaargh, you twat!” Zayn hisses, whirling around. “I’m on the phone to Niall.”

Liam just shrugs and shouts, “Hi Nialler!”

Louis purposefully doesn’t look around. He doesn’t need to see the Parisians glaring at them for causing a scene and for, most offensively of all, yelling in English. While not looking around, he takes in Zayn instead, observes his serious eyes and his defined cheekbones. He’s wearing a Gareth Pugh t-shirt and black skinny jeans, the outline of a packet of cigarettes visible in his pocket. Louis can see why Zayn would want to visit Paris, how he fits in effortlessly. He can also see why Liam—sporty and quick-to-smile Liam—might sometimes feel more comfortable leaving Zayn alone do his artsy Parisian thing, and break out in search of his own adventures. 

“Niall, hang on, Liam’s just attacked me. No, I haven’t seen his priest yet. Just hold up.” Zayn holds the phone away from his ear and slings an arm around Liam. “So, vas happening, bro? You’re running behind, we’ll be late for this dinner!”

“You didn’t say anything about a dinner!” Louis pipes up. Zayn looks over at him for the first time, and Liam rolls his eyes.

“Because it’s nothing. It’ll be dead boring. Would rather have had drinks with you.”

“Sooo,” Zayn squeezes Liam’s shoulder while staring at Louis, “you’re Liam’s priest, then?” Louis looks around, but who else could Zayn be speaking to? He isn’t wearing his “priest outfit,” as Liam would call it, this afternoon either, but Zayn is able to tell somehow. Probably because he had been the only person with Liam, and because he’s edging toward the door of the église, can’t help himself, while Liam and Zayn remain standing closer to the street.

“Niall!” Zayn’s shouting into his mobile. “Niall, you owe me. You owe me big time because it’s for real. Liam’s priest is standing in front of me, and it is majorly for real.” Louis turns to Liam in alarm, but Liam’s hiding his head in his hands. “No I can’t take a picture of him, that’s embarrassing, bro. You’ll just have to meet him for yourself when you visit. Alright fine, the bet’s off ‘til then. Liam’s gonna kill me right now though, and I’ve got an actual priest to deal with. I’ll text you-miss you-bye.” Zayn pockets his mobile and Liam raises one murderous eyebrow at him.

“What the fuck was that,” he hisses and then looks at Louis. “Father Tommo, this is my horribly embarrassing mate, Zayn, who apparently made a bet with my other mate, Niall, that you aren’t a real person. But you are a real person, so let me now introduce you to my former best mate, Zayn.”

“Ah, killing me!” Zayn clutches his chest, but then detaches himself from Liam to shake Louis’ hand. “Father Tommo, is it alright if I call you that?”

“Absolutely,” Louis takes Zayn’s hand, and sees Liam smiling at them.

“It’s brilliant to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Likewise.”

“Nah seriously,” Zayn continues, “from the first day that you gave him directions, Liam wouldn’t shut up about this nice priest. And then when he ran into you again! You can’t blame us for thinking he’d invented you, you’re too good to be true,” and oh, that’s not fair, Louis thinks. Because, what if he isn’t good at all. “But then, of course, only Liam would make friends with a priest of all people in Paris!” Zayn throws his arm around Liam again, and Louis thinks that’s just as unfair, but in a different way.

“I’m so sorry,” Liam says to Louis. “I had no idea he’d be on the phone to Niall. They’re totally mad when they’re together.”

“You’ll have to meet Niall when he visits,” Zayn says with a wink.

“I don’t know,” Louis shakes his head. “Sounds like trouble to me.”

“He absolutely is,” says Zayn.

“Then I’m in,” Louis says and surprises himself. Liam is looking at him, his gaze inscrutable, and Louis feels like he’s being judged, measured up. It isn’t common when you’re a priest, usually he’s the one doing the measuring up, and it makes him feel fidgety, his stomach doing backflips.

Luckily Zayn comes to his rescue. “We’re insanely late,” he reminds Liam. “Got a dinner date,” he explains to Louis.

“Friends of my mum’s,” Liam says in an apologetic voice, “we’ve been set up. She wants to make sure we get one proper meal in while we’re here.”

“Aww, have a lovely date night, then,” Louis coos.

“Shut up!” Liam calls, giving a little wave, as Zayn drags him away.

“Are you allowed to say ‘shut up’ to a priest?” he can hear Zayn asking, before they disappear, lost in the crowd.

Later that night Louis receives a series of texts:

_dinner date was BORINGGGG_

_Zayns going to more BORINGGG museums tomorrow :((((((_

_wanna try the luxemburg gardenssss?_

To which Louis replies: _jardin du Luxembourg? Yes. Meet you in front of the eglise at 2:30? We can walk together_

_it’s a daaate_

_rendez-vous, you mean_

+

The next day is the last day of July, and it’s an oppressively hot one. Still, Louis bounds out the door and down the front steps of Église Notre-Dame des Champs in his “work” uniform of black trousers and a short-sleeved black button-down with the Roman collar. (though he has taken the liberty of rolling his trouser cuffs up to let his ankles can breathe.) Liam, who is waiting for him outside wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled all the way up to his shoulders raises an eyebrow at him.

“Full Father Tommo gear today?”

“No time to change,” Louis says with a shrug. “Besides, the sailboats are mainly for children to play with, but no one will dare question a priest.” Then he leans up, placing a hand on Liam’s shoulder to balance himself, and kisses him once on each cheek. Liam smells faintly balmy—almost like coconut oil—as though maybe he’s just put on sunscreen. Somehow it’s horribly endearing. Liam gapes in surprise, but Louis just shrugs with a smile.

“We’re French today. That’s how you say hello in France. Bonjour, Liam!” He begins walking around the corner in the direction of the jardin. It takes Liam a moment to catch up, but he does.

“Bonjour, Father Tommo” he responds in a quiet voice.

 

Unsurprisingly for such a sunny day, the jardin du Luxembourg is practically overflowing with people. There’s hardly a free bench or chair anywhere, as people sit, chatting or flipping through magazines, or just lying in quiet peace, soaking up the sunlight and the day. Children are laughing and running down the serpentine pathways, kicking up dust as they go, lending a tangible haze to the atmosphere.

“Père Louis! Père Louis!” Louis hears his name, as two children come flying toward him.

“Sophie! Jacques!” he crouches down to greet the smiling girl and boy in front of him. “Bonjour, les enfants!” Sophie shows off the ice cream bar her maman has just bought for her, while Jacques whines that he’s already finished his.

“C’est pas ma faute si tu l’as déjà fini, le tien!” Sophie hisses at Jacques, stomping her foot as though to prove that his complaining can’t ruin her fun. She looks away and notices Liam, her eyes going wide, she crunches down on her ice cream bar in silence. Jacques follows her gaze, and scuffs his toe in the dust, looking questioningly from Liam to Louis. Louis looks up and observes Liam from this vantage point, all wide shoulders and dark eyes. He seems impossibly tall, and his eyebrows are furrowed. Sophie and Jacques don’t know that the thing with his eyebrows just means that he’s feeling uncertain, not that he’s mysterious. Louis sets a reassuring arm on both of the children’s shoulders.

“Je vais parler anglais maintenant,” he tells them, as he stands up. “This is my friend, Liam. He’s English, like me. Liam, this is the lovely Sophie, and this is frère Jacques, dormez-vous,” he singsongs. “Les enfants, let’s say “hi” to Liam.”

Sophie and Jacques seem unsure, so Louis stage-whispers with a cheeky grin: “Il est très, très sympa. Mais, à être vrai, il est un peu fou aussi!” he turns to Liam, inches close into his space. “Hello, Liam!” he yells, pulling a face to distract him, and then pinches his arm so that the children can’t see. Liam gasps and jumps away, apparently proving Louis’ point to Sophie and Jacques that’s he’s a bit of a lunatic.

“Hello, Liam!” Sophie and Jacques echo, shrieking in laughter.

“You’re craaazy!” Jacques adds, drawing out the vowel, as though mimicking something he’d heard in an American film.

“Excellent, Jacques!” Louis holds up a hand and Jacques high-fives him.

“Les enfants, on y va!” comes the sharp unmistakable voice of a mother in a hurry, and now it’s the children’s turn to jumps, as they say their goodbyes in a flurry and run back to their maman.

“A mercredi! A la prochaine!” Louis calls and waves to them. He turns to see Liam looking at him with a little smile playing across his face.

“I’m going to have to learn French,” he announces.

“Brilliant news! Why now, so that you can finally order a proper meal for yourself?”

“No, so that I can understand what kind of unfounded rumors you’re spreading about me to your tiny parishioners.”

“I think you’ll find that the rumors aren’t so unfounded, mate,” and, for no particular reason, he pinches Liam’s arm again. Just because it’s there, and because Liam lets him.

 

They reach the fountain at the center of the jardin, the grand Sénat building looming in front of them. Louis rents two miniature sailboats and the accompanying bâtons to guide the boats in the water. Liam chooses one with the Irish flag on its sail.

“For Niall,” he explains.

“What a disgrace to Niall,” Louis replies, choosing the boat with the French flag. “Because you’re obviously going to lose.” They kneel around the edge of the basin.

“So, how does it work?” Liam inquires. “There aren’t any official rules?”

“I suppose the goal is to make it to the opposite end of the fountain, if you can. See everyone else with their sailboats?” Louis gestures around the circular fountain. “And the ducks? Basically, you try to make yours go as far as possible without crashing into something.” Liam laughs.

“So you’re saying that it’s pretty much just chaos?”

“More or less.”

“Perfect.” Liam smiles “Line up your boat, we’ll push off on the count of three.” Louis sets his boat in the water and lines his bâton up like a pool cue to push off.

“Un,” he begins, “deux, troi—” but before he can finish the word, Liam is elbowing into his side, pushing him and Louis finds himself tipping over sideways. “Oi! Cheating against a priest!”

“Oops!” Liam cackles, already guiding his sailboat out towards the middle of the water.

“I’ve got dust all over my trousers now!”

“I’m sorry,” Liam taps him on the thigh with his bâton. “But you didn’t think I’d just let you get away with all that pinching business. I had to get you back.” Louis pushes his own boat into the basin, trying not to think about the symbolism of Liam poking him with a stick.

“Hmm, good one. But enjoy it now, because you’ll be punished for it later.” Liam shrugs off this warning, but it turns out that his boat is thrown off course about a quarter of the way across the basin by a passing duck.

“You deserve that!” Louis crows, as Liam leans over the edge, trying to reach his boat with his bâton. It’s just out of reach and he nearly ends up poking the poor duck instead and toppling into the water. He catches himself with one hand on the ledge. Louis grips his elbow to steady him, intoning, “Careful, cheri.”

“Ouch, goddammit!” Liam exclaims, sitting down with his back to the water, the sailboat forgotten. “I mean, oh shit, sorry. I mean, thanks for grabbing me. Aarrgh, I’ve scraped up my hand. Don’t tell me, I probably deserved this too.”

Louis shakes his head, commands in a gentle voice: “Ah oui? Let me see,” he takes Liam’s hand and turns it over to inspect his palm. “Look, it’s just a scratch.”

“Shall I dunk it in the water and just rinse it off?” Liam moves to pull his hand away, but Louis grips more tightly.

“Are you mad!” he laughs. “That’s the only sure way to get an infection. Parisians spit in here, if not worse. Definitely worse. Rubbing some dirt on it would be a better option.” Liam looks almost more alarmed at this suggestion than at the fact that he had nearly dipped his scraped-up hand in a cesspool.

“Hang on,” he says, his eyes going wide, “shouldn’t this be, like, a holy thing?”

“Like a what?”

“Like, you know, laying on of hands or whatever. If you touch me, my wound will be healed?” Louis bursts out laughing and drops Liam’s hand.

“Liam, I’m beginning to suspect that you don’t actually have a clue about what priests do.”

“Then enlighten me, please, all-knowing Father Tommo.”

“I can say a prayer for you, but I’m not some kind of wizard or magician. You may be surprised to hear that I am not Merlin or Dumbledore. And I am definitely not Jesus, I can’t heal people with a single touch.” Liam stares down at his hand for a moment, criss-crossing scratches from the concrete etched into his palm. Then he looks directly at Louis, his gaze magnetic.

“I don’t know, you’re _something_ ,” an intensity flickering in his eyes. Louis shivers, simultaneously too cold and too hot. He leaps up, unable to sit calmly next to Liam anymore.

“Have we quite finished here, this has been a bit of a bust. I’m sorry.” He brushes off his trousers and makes a move to walk away.

“Hang on, Tommo, look!” Liam is staring at the water. 

“Father,” Louis corrects, but Liam doesn’t hear.

“Isn’t that your boat?” he’s pointing enthusiastically across the fountain. “You’ve won!” Louis looks and, sure enough, a sailboat with the French flag is bobbing up and down in the water at the opposite end of the fountain. It sits alone, untouched, and Louis thinks that somehow it doesn’t feel like much of a victory.

He points out their boats and hands off their bâtons to a couple of children, “Let them play for free,” he says, tapping Liam on the shoulder as they wander away from the fountain.

Louis walks back along the curving pathways of the jardin in silence, something leaden settling in the pit of his stomach. The jardin du Luxembourg was supposed to be a fun rendez-vous, something different from their normal routine. But then Liam had gotten hurt and he couldn’t fix it in the way that Liam expected him to. More than that, Liam had communicated something—that look—and Louis hadn’t known how to respond. He suspects that it was verging on something that he’s not allowed to respond to.

Thankfully Liam seems to understand Louis’ need for silence, walking easily in step next to him back down the curving dusty pathways. But as they near the jardin gates, he grazes Louis’ arm with the back of his hand, saying: “So tell me, how would you say the twenty-ninth of August in French?”

“What?”

“How would you say, ‘I’m turning twenty-six on the twenty-ninth of August’ in French?”

Louis stops walking for a second as his breath catches. Then he grins, wide and lopsided, up at Liam.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

+

Louis and Liam have mostly stuck to a schedule of seeing each other on Tuesdays and Thursdays, with the odd Friday or Saturday afternoon as well. Now Louis decides to invite him out on a Sunday. It probably isn’t a big deal to Liam. For him, Sunday is just another day to sleep in and maybe grab a late crêpe for brunch. But it means something to Louis.

_Hey ! You free this Sunday? Rendez-vous at the eglise at 1 pm?_

_yupppp! see u thennn :)))))_ Louis really has to admire Liam’s ability to creatively and enthusiastically add letters to any word or symbol.

 

It’s crowded outside the église on Sunday as families and friends stop to greet each other before heading home for Sunday dinner, but Louis spots Liam leaning against one of the iron railings. This time Liam leans down to kiss Louis in greeting, the slight stubble along their jawlines scraping together with friction for a brief moment.

“Bonjour!” Liam exclaims. He pulls back, a smile creeping across his face. “Hang on though, are you carrying a purse?”

“Liam, honestly, get with the program. This is a Longchamp bag. Everyone in Paris carries one, men, women, newborns. Besides, I have _provisions_ in here.”

“Provisions, uh-oh. Are we going to war or something?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Louis tilts his head, waiting to see Liam’s response. “How do you feel about bike rides through crowded cities?”

“As long as I have a priest on my side, I feel alright about them.” Liam answers without hesitation.

“Good. We’re headed to the Tuileries for a picnic. It’s the biggest jardin in Paris, definitely something you should see. It’s such a nice day, we should bike instead of crowding onto the metro, non?” Liam’s face opens up with excitement at this announcement, and Louis has to stop himself from smiling too wide because it was exactly what he had hoped to see. He and Liam find the nearest vélib rental spot, and Louis throws his Longchamp into the front basket, taking the lead as they bike over to the Right Bank.

 

Louis recites the rosary to himself the whole way. He recites it at the cars flying past them down rue de Rennes. He recites it at the mopeds and other cyclists who swerve around them. He recites it when he looks over at Liam and sees the outline of his shoulder blades as he steers his bike, recites it when he sees the wind rippling his raglan shirt. He recites it when Liam spots the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and looks over at him with the cheesiest, loveliest smile Louis has ever seen plastered across his face.

 

The Tuileries stretch all the way from the Louvre to the place de la Concorde in a long rectangle of lush green grass. Louis remembers the curved, serpentine pathways of the jardin du Luxembourg. He remembers how they had lead to the circular fountain at the center where Liam had fallen, and Louis had somehow gotten lost in the spiral of his own thoughts. But the jardin des Tuileries is the opposite kind of space: all sharp, definitive edges and straight pathways leading directly to the Louvre. Getting lost isn’t even a possibility here.

Louis and Liam snag one of the wooden tables lined up just off the central pathway leading up to the palais du Louvre. Liam moves the chair so that they’re almost sitting next to one another as Louis unpacks their _pique-nique_ : two ham and cheese baguettes, two chocolate éclairs and one bottle of Veuve-Clicquot champagne, the infamous yellow label shining in the afternoon sun.

“Don’t worry,” Louis says, as Liam eyes the champagne. “I kept it in the fridge during mass. Should still be cool. Here, fix these plastic cups.” He tosses out a packet of plastic champagne flutes for Liam to tend to. Meanwhile, he opens the champagne bottle by twisting a napkin over the cork, muffling the sound. “Trick I picked up in a past life when I was a waiter.” He says, with a little wink at Liam.

They enjoy the food, Louis in particular is always starving after mass. To his delight, Liam begins pointing to different objects and asking for the French word. He points to their baguette sandwiches, one eyebrow raised.

“Ham and cheese? Un jambon fromage.”

Liam points to their drinks.

“Liam, you know this. Champagne! It’s the same word.”

“Oh! Maybe it’s going to my head already!” he giggles, and casts around for something else. “Well, what about this?” He’s brushing the tip of Louis’ hair, swept high off his forehead today.

“Hair? Les cheveux. It’s plural.”

“It certainly is,” Liam flicks a finger at it, then moves down Louis’ face, taps him on the nose. “And this?”

“Le nez,” Louis can feel himself holding his breath. Liam’s hand is hovering in front of his face and, before he knows it, two fingers are resting lightly on his lips.

“And this?” Liam drags his fingers down, Louis’ lips parting slightly from the pressure.

“Les lèvres,” Louis is surprised he’s coherent enough to say the words.

“Hmm,” Liam withdraws his hand, pulls it back into his lap. “Lèvres. That’s difficult to pronounce.”

“That’s French for you. It’s all about the ‘r’ said way back in your throat.” Louis motions to his throat with one hand, and Liam is staring at him, at his mouth, at his throat, as he says the word in French again. Louis stops abruptly, self-conscious. Liam gives him an apologetic smile, then looks down at his hands in his lap. He seems to be turning over something in his mind. Louis takes a sip of champagne and lets him take his time.

“I wish I had known you,” Liam says, and he’s not looking at Louis. “I wish I had known you back before you were a priest.” Louis lets out a hollow laugh.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Why? You know Yorkshire isn’t that far from Wolverhampton. I mean, they’re in the same country at least.”

“Careful everyone, we’ve got a Geography genius in the jardin today!” Louis jokes, but his smile falters. “The truth is,” he begins carefully, “I was pretty out of my mind then. Out of control. I probably wouldn’t remember you, to be honest.” Louis looks directly at Liam now, their eyes locking. “And that would’ve been a shame.”

“I’m sorry,” Liam fidgets in seat, twirls his plastic champagne flute on the table. “I didn’t mean to make you talk about this.”

“No, don’t be. I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t want to tell you,” Louis thinks of sharp angles, and straight lines, and how he and Liam need to not get lost. Liam offers him a tentative, encouraging smile, and that’s all Louis needs to see from him. “It isn’t the most elegant way to fall into the priesthood. But I dropped out of uni. Well, I was about to fail out, really. For never turning up to class. My mum wanted me to go rehab or see a therapist, but I knew that wouldn’t be enough. It wasn’t about drugs or partying, not really. Everything about my life at the time was so aimless. What I needed was some kind of purpose. I can’t explain exactly how it came to me, but I knew religion would fill that void. Because being a priest, it’s more than just being passionate about something. I’m passionate about plenty of things. But this is total, utter, inescapable devotion. Giving yourself over to something larger than yourself, it’s exactly what I needed.” Liam is hunched over the table, staring at Louis, his eyes dark, as though shutters have been closed across them. Louis can’t read him at all.

“But why France? Why did you have to come here?”

“Had to move to a Catholic country, really, didn’t I?”

“Did you speak French before?”

“No, not at all.” Liam gapes at him, looking almost scandalized. Louis chuckles. “That made it easier in a way, actually. It taught me to be disciplined, learning a new language and learning a new lifestyle at the same time. I had to learn French to survive, I couldn’t lose focus. It was definitely the hardest I’ve ever worked at something.”

“Okay, so…you’re happy?” Liam asks. “Like this? With this life?”

“Oui,” Louis nods. “Yes. It’s good for me, and I think I’m a little bit good at it as well? If I can keep teaching and helping with the children. Not even just with the catechism, but if I can guide them in any small way, I would be satisfied.”

“I saw you with those two kids the other week. I almost hate to tell you this,” Liam shakes his head, “but you really should be proud of your work. I couldn’t understand a single thing you said, but they obviously adore you.”

“Hate to tell me? Don’t want to feed my ludicrously large ego?” Louis tries lightening the mood.

“Something like that,” the corner of Liam’s mouth turns up as he says it, but the smile doesn’t stick. Louis supposes this isn’t a time for joking.

“Well, whatever you tell me, Liam,” he says, his tone turning serious again, “I’ll listen.”

Liam blinks at him, then picks up his champagne glass, and raises it to Louis in a quick toast before downing it in one go.

 

Louis will admit that perhaps champagne plus a bike ride was not one of his better ideas. The two of them stumble tipsily out of the Tuileries gates clutching the handlebars of their bikes, not daring to ride. He guides them down along the river Seine in the direction of St Michel, and they drop the bikes off at a different vélib rental spot. (the one convenient thing Sarkozy ever did for the city) Louis figures he’ll jump on the metro at St Michel, while Liam walks back to the flat he and Zayn have rented.

It’s late afternoon by now, the sun high in the sky, beating down onto their backs as they cross the pont des Arts to get back to the Left Bank. It’s the only bridge reserved just for pedestrians, and people take their time strolling across it. Although, perhaps the reason people take their time is to get a better look at the bridge itself.

“What’s going on here? Is this some kind of art display?” Liam asks, slowing in his tracks. He points to one side of the bridge where the balustrade is completely covered with padlocks.

“Actually, no. It’s a recent phenomenon,” Louis explains. “Lovers write their names or initials and the date on the lock before attaching it to the bridge. Then you’re supposed to throw the key into the river.”

“And that’s supposed to be romantic?” Liam says with a half-smile, as though he can’t really decide.

“Well, yes, I think it is. It’s like you’re bound together, the two of you, on this bridge in the center of Paris. Paris is indestructible, I mean it’s the only European city untouched by the world wars. Paris is eternal. And, this way, it’s not that you have a piece of Paris as a souvenir. Paris has a piece of you. And that’s more powerful, don’t you think?”

“Holy shit,” Liam murmurs, staring at him. Then he walks closer to the locks, fingering one, examining the painted-on initials.

“I mean,” Louis feels embarrassed about his sudden romantic outburst, “maybe tossing the key in the Seine is a bit much. But the lock idea is sweet. Plus, I have to admit, it looks pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Liam’s walking ahead of him now, he has to catch up to hear him. “Yeah it’s pretty sick.” He stops, turning over another lock in his hands. He looks back at Louis now. “How do you say this? In French?” He gives the lock a tug, for emphasis.

“Padlock is ‘un cadenas.’ These are called ‘les cadenas d’amour.’”

“Lock of love?”

“Yes. Something along those lines.” Liam just nods in response. “Had you really not seen this bridge before now?” Louis asks, mildly surprised that Liam has been here a little over a month without ever crossing pont des Arts.

“No, I honestly hadn’t. There are a lot of bridges in Paris,” Liam looks sheepish and tries to justify himself. “But I’m glad we took this way back,” he adds with an odd, wistful look on his face.

 

They reach the end of the bridge and wander along the Left Bank, passing by the bouquinistes with their endless post cards and odd assortment of books on display. Louis feels like they’re going against the crowd, every tourist in Paris seemingly walking in opposite direction as the two of them. Yet, everything seems to slow down for a moment—the noise of the city muting—and Louis somehow knows what Liam’s going to say before he says it.

“So, priests. Priests and sex. That’s not on at all, is it?” The question tumbles easily out of Liam’s mouth, and maybe that’s because of the champagne, or maybe just because things are easy between them.

“No, not at all,” Louis affirms. “Kind of the point, isn’t it?” The St Michel metro is in sight, Louis can see the famous art nouveau ‘Metropolitain’ sign. They cross the street and stop for a moment at the corner. Liam’s eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together in one long line.

“But,” he asks, “what if you fall in love? What then?”

Louis turns toward the metro, but doesn’t start walking. He doesn’t notice anything, not the Parisians glaring and jostling him as they hurry by, or the tourists chattering away loudly in every language imaginable. There isn’t anything else except Liam listening to him as he answers:

“Oh, but, Liam,” now he looks Liam in the eye. “There’s no rule against falling in love.”

“Of course,” Liam blushes nearly scarlet. “Sex and love aren’t the same thing.”

“Not always, no,” Louis replies, thoughtful. He wants to articulate something, wants to get it right. “If a priest were to fall in love, he would—well, I would just have to find a different way to express it.”

Liam tilts his head, considering Louis, but doesn’t say anything. Then he’s leaning down, his lips close to Louis’ ear.

“I’ll add it to the list then, shall I?” he whispers, kissing Louis swiftly on each cheek.

“Oui,” Louis gasps. “Yes. Au revoir.” But he’s talking to himself again because Liam is already gone, swallowed up by the crowd and the city. And Louis feels his face flushing—burning up—in his wake.

+

Texts from Liam have become an increasingly regular occurrence, so Louis isn’t surprised at all to see his name flashing on his mobile screen the next day.

_hiii, what r some good restaurants hear? need someplace to bring the lads when they visit_

Louis begins racking his brain for options when another message pops up:

_u choose because ur comin too! should be a place u like. ladz night in Paris!!!!!!!_

_you sure you want a priest interfering with your lads night ??_

_OUIIII. YESSS. even Zayn says u have to go out with us_

_well I can’t argue with Zayn……._

_:))))))))_

That’s how Louis ends up waiting for Liam outside Église Notre-Dame des Champs on a Friday night. He had told Monsieur de Clèves he was taking a rain check on their customary bottle of wine, and had even left his rosary beads at home. Louis had suggested a restaurant nearby in the 6th arrondissement partly because he knew it would be convenient both for him and for the lads, but Liam had insisted on meeting him at the église beforehand so that the two of them could go to the restaurant together.

Louis checks his watch, then looks up to see Liam strolling up the boulevard, right on time. He’s wearing what looks like a new black jacket, it’s unwrinkled and sits well on his shoulders. His legs look lean in skinny dark wash jeans. _All he needs is a scarf_ Louis thinks, with a shiver. _Then he’d look really Parisian_.

“Bonsoir!” Liam calls, as Louis walks toward the boulevard to meet him. They kiss hello, and Louis notices that there’s an undercurrent to Liam’s typical balmy, coconut smell. There’s an edge of musk and sweat, like the August heat has gotten to him. To his alarm, Louis doesn’t find it unpleasant. He pulls away, and Liam lets out a little laugh.

“What is it?” Louis asks, slightly nervous that Liam could somehow read his thoughts.

“Nothing. It’s just that you always smell like Christmas.”

“ _What_?”

“Like frankincense and myrrh.” Louis stares for a moment before throwing his back his head in laughter.

“You wouldn’t think that if you’d ever been to church on a day besides Christmas. I smell like regular incense, you lunatic.”

“No, I like it!” Liam insists. “It’s the middle of summer, yet you smell like Christmas. It’s comforting somehow.”

Louis doesn’t have a joke or any kind of appropriate response for that, so he clears his throat, willing proper words to come out. “We should probably get going, non? Everyone will be waiting.”

“Oh! Of course, yeah,” Liam snaps into motion, heading back in the direction from which he had just arrived.

“This was silly,” Louis says. “I’m sorry that you came to pick me up, it really wasn’t necessary. It was a waste of a metro trip for you.”

“Actually, it was necessary,” Liam’s tone is careful. He’s looking sideways at Louis, like he isn’t sure what his reaction will be. “Niall is here. And our mate, Harry. They’re Zayn’s flatmates from uni this year. Harry is still working on his dissertation, and Niall works at a pub nearby. They’re sometimes a lot to take just on their own but, when the three of them are together, they can be especially full-on, you know? I don’t live with them because, honestly, I need some peace and quiet sometimes, and they never give you a break. I didn’t want you to walk into that on your own. It was nice enough that you agreed to come out with us in the first place. Wouldn’t want to scare you off right away.”

“As if you could scare me off,” Louis teases.

But he reaches over and takes Liam’s hand, holds it lightly. Liam lets it happen. They both let their hands hang entwined for a brief moment. Then Louis gives his hand a gentle squeeze before dropping it, but the memory of the touch lingers between them. Louis isn’t sorry that he had done that. He _wanted_ to do it, wanted to be gentle like that with Liam. Because Liam is thoughtful and considerate of others in a way that few people are. He isn’t intimidated by Louis, doesn’t think that just because Louis is slightly older and a priest means that he doesn’t need to be solicitous of Louis’ feelings. And Louis knows how rare that is.

The hazy summer sun has set now in earnest, and streetlamps are lighting up all along the boulevard, the metro sign for Montparnasse-Bienvenüe blinking at them as the approach. Louis feels off-balance somehow, and tells himself it’s just the lights, just the City of Light getting to his head, making him feel dizzy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Liam smiling down at him, and that makes it harder to lie to himself. Louis speeds up, descends alone down the stairs leading underground.

 

Zayn is standing on the street outside the restaurant, attached to two boys Louis supposes must be Niall and Harry. He is quite literally attached, the three of them appearing like a sort of octopus with three heads, their arms and legs hopelessly tangled. Louis slows down instinctively when he sees them, unsure how to approach, but Liam is right next to him, his hand touching the crook of Louis’ elbow, guiding him forward.

“Bonsoir!” Liam calls, with a silly exaggerated wave.

“Bonsoir!” the three-headed creature calls back in unison, before breaking apart.

“Is this the great Father Tommo?” someone who must be Niall, considering the Irish lilt, rushes forward to shake Louis’ hand. Louis thinks “Father Tommo” has never sounded more endearing than when said in his enthusiastic accent.

“Is this the esteemed Niall?” he says in return. Niall claps him on the back and tosses his head back, giving a distinctive, ringing laugh.

“I like this man already,” Niall declares, turning to Liam. “He holds me in esteem.”

“I suppose someone has to,” snarks Zayn. “None of the rest of us do,” Niall ignores Zayn in favor of continuing to smile at Louis.

“You never said your priest was fit, Liam. You neglected that bit,” says a lanky boy. He’s hunching down to rest his chin on Zayn’s shoulder, and considering Louis with big green eyes. This must be Harry.

“No, _I_ told you that bit, remember?” Zayn says, leaning back into him.

“Shhh,” Harry holds a finger to Zayn’s lips. “I know, but I wanted to see his face—there! That face right there!” He points to Liam, whose lips are now pursed in a thin line as he shakes his head. Harry somehow shifts himself effortlessly from Zayn’s shoulder to Liam’s.

“I’m sorry, Liam,” says Harry, their faces about an inch apart. “It’s just that you’re the most fun to wind up.” Liam just stares at Harry, a stern expression on his face. He looks like someone’s disapproving dad. Very slowly, and without changing his expression, he raises one hand, pulls on Harry’s mess of curls, and uses the force to drag Harry’s head off of his shoulder.

“Ouch, shit! You know I spend a lot of time arranging my hair so that it looks nicely dishevelled! Also, that hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Liam retorts, a smile playing across his lips now. “ _You’re_ the most fun to wind up.” The two of them just giggle at each other. Meanwhile Niall and Zayn seem to be having a conversation with their eyebrows, as though they’ve already witnessed this same type of scene thousands of times and don’t need to be involved.

“Come on, Liam.” Harry says, smacking him in the chest. “Give me a proper introduction to your priest, please.”

“Harry, this is Father Tommo,” he motions for Harry to shake hands. “And Father Tommo, I’m very sorry to say that I’m friends with this person, but this is Harry.” Harry flashes him a genuinely friendly grin, so Louis smiles back. “But he isn’t _my_ priest, so you can all stop calling him that.” 

The three-headed creature makes a comeback as Harry, Zayn and Niall tilt their heads in the same direction and give Liam a knowing look. It makes Louis feel dizzy again.

“Gentlemen!” Louis cries. “While these introductions have been lovely, and would probably make for a fascinating sociological experiment, I actually did make reservations. Shall we go inside and see whether or not they’ve given away our table?”

“Yes, excellent idea!” Liam responds hurriedly. “Inside. Let’s go!”

“I’m sitting next to Father Tommo!” Niall crows and slings his arm around Louis’ shoulder. Louis is taken by surprise at the fact that he’s on arm-slinging terms with Niall already, but the physical contact seems to come naturally to him.

“Me too!” Harry cries. “I’m sitting next to him too!”

“I’ll sit in the middle,” Louis says in a pacifying voice, having fallen into the habit of playing peacemaker long ago with his younger sisters. He looks back over his shoulder to catch Liam’s eye. The corner of Liam’s mouth turns up in uncertainty, and he gives an apologetic shrug. Louis smiles widely back at him in return.

 

The restaurant Louis has chosen for them, Bouillon Racine, was built at the turn of the Twentieth century in serious art nouveau style. The five boys walk in to see walls covered with mirrors, reflecting endless visions of the dining room. The original interior decorator had somehow worked wooden slats into the glass and engineered them so that they curve in serpentine art nouveau patterns. Light fixtures hang from curly-cued wrought iron suspensions. Zayn looks around in awe and declares the place “fucking sick!” before they’re even seated. However, Louis—sandwiched in between Harry and Niall—observes the snaking designs around him with a sinking sensation in his stomach. He recalls the jardin du Luxembourg, and feels as though he’s led everyone into the Garden of Eden, wonders what impulse had driven him to choose a restaurant mimicking the birthplace of Original Sin.

Liam takes a seat directly across from him and he doesn’t need to wonder anymore.

 

Louis orders a bottle of wine for the table and a beer for Niall.

“So uncultured,” Zayn teases. “You’re supposed to order wine with dinner, Nialler.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, the beer is just a warm-up to get me in the mood. I’ll get to the wine later.”

“In the mood for what?” Zayn laughs. Niall throws his arm out, gesturing around the restaurant, presumably meaning _in the mood for everything_.

Louis refuses to order everyone’s individual meal, and he can see the waiter willing himself to be patient as he makes his way around the table, attempting to understand everyone’s hilariously mangled French. Louis gives Liam a little thumbs up when he pronounces “confit de canard” without hesitation. Meanwhile, Harry orders escargots, and then dangles each snail in front of everyone’s faces, dripping garlic butter all over the table, before popping them into his mouth. Louis notices the waiter throwing increasingly thunderous looks their way each time he passes by.

Niall finishes off his beer, and gets some wine in him before he turns to Louis, a gleam in his eye and says: “So, you’re not wearing a priest, like, uniform or anything, bro. How can I trust that you actually are priest?”

“Niall!” Liam hisses, scandalized. “You can’t call a priest “bro,” have some respect. And why are you two,” he points between Zayn and Niall, “so bloody obsessed with whether or not he’s a real priest?”

“It’s alright,” Louis interrupts, holding up one hand to placate Liam. He looks down at his outfit: black trousers and white Oxford shirt, with the collar buttoned up, naturally. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was expected to wear my full robes tonight. Didn’t think it would be appropriate for a lads night,” he nudges Niall with his elbow, and Niall grins at him.

“I really do like him, Liam,” he says, taking a sip of wine and smacking his lips. The passing waiter cringes at the noise. “He gives as good as he gets.”

“Usually he gives rather more than gets,” says Liam dryly. “And he explained it to me: he’s not Jesus or Dumbledore. He’s just a priest. Definitely a priest.”

“Shit mate, are you drunk already?” Zayn eyes Liam’s glass, trying to gauge how much he’s had to drink.

“No, we really did have a conversation like that,” Louis assures.

“Dumbledore and Jesus, sounds cool,” Harry drawls.

“Sounds bizarre,” Zayn shakes his head. “Anyway, that settles it!” he points to Niall. “You owe me, Horan.”

“So,” Harry leans across Louis. “What did you two bet? It’s not fair teasing, you have to tell!”

“No, please don’t tell us!” Liam insists. Zayn licks his lips and Niall just cocks one eyebrow.

“Holy shit!” Harry leans all the way over Louis now, grabbing at Niall’s wrist. “It’s sex, isn’t it! You bet something to do with sex and now you’re gonna do it!”

“Well, not here in the restaurant! Jesus, Styles.” Niall jerks his hand out of Harry’s grasp, but then pushes at him, so that Louis basically ends up with both Niall and Harry in his lap shoving at each other.

“Oh my god, well don’t do it in our flat!” Harry is shouting. “Well, maybe. Just tell me if you need me to leave. Or don’t tell me. I can’t decide, I’m overwhelmed! Just please don’t do it in the kitchen, and we’ll be fine.” Louis gets one hand on Harry’s shoulder and one on Niall’s and calmly pushes them back into their respective seats. He sees that Liam has his elbows on the table, head in hands, while Zayn is just rolling his eyes.

“Thanks for doing that,” Zayn says to Louis. “We could use you to separate them more often.”

“Don’t act like you’re so above it, Zayn,” Liam hisses out from behind his hands.

“Neither are you!” Zayn shoots back. “Besides, it’s just a blowjob, Harry. Nothing to get so worked up about.”

“Just a blowjob, hmmm?” Harry rests his chin on his hand, considering Zayn with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah,” Niall pipes up. “I might’ve been high and said something along the lines of ‘Zayn, you’re full of shit, and I will literally blow you if it turns out that Liam is really best friends with a priest.’”

“And then I said, ‘Care to make it official? Because I’m here with Liam, and, I’m telling you, it seems real to me. So you’re gonna owe me a blowjob, you dumbass.’”

“That is IT!” Everyone at the table turns to look at Liam. He’s clutching his knife in his hand, knuckles turning white. He slams it down on the table for emphasis as he speaks. “We are not. Discussing. Blowjobs. In front. Of a priest!” His outburst is greeted by silence. Zayn reaches over and pries the knife out of Liam’s grasp, setting it down where he can’t reach.

“Hate to tell you this, Liam,” Louis breaks the silence. “But it’s a little late for that. You’ve already discussed it.” And he gives a gentle smile.

“But! But, seriously!” Liam sputters.

“Seriously. It’s okay. I don’t judge.” Niall gives a snort, and Louis turns to look at him.

“Isn’t that kind of your job though?” he asks. “Like, telling people to do penance or whatever?”

“People come to me with problems or to confess their sins, and it’s my job to guide them as best I can, or absolve them. But really, I’m mortal, just like you. It’s not my place to sit in judgment.”

“Really?” Harry breaks in “Not even about—?” He hesitates, looking from Niall to Zayn. Then he gives a yelp, meaning Liam has stomped on his foot under the table. He decides on a more tactful track. “I mean, like, what’s your opinion on gay marriage? And, like, do you think the Church will ever allow female priests?”

“I think the Church needs to modernize its views,” Louis says in a cautious tone. “But I couldn’t say how exactly that might happen.”

“But, Vatican II!” Harry cries. “That was a huge upheaval at the time. It’s not inconceivable that the Church could do something like that again, right?”

“You know about Vatican II?” Louis asks in surprise.

“Yeah, when Zayn told me that Liam befriended a priest, I did a little research. Look, I have to procrastinate writing my dissertation somehow, and this was interesting!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Niall looks disgusted. “Just play FIFA like a normal person.”

“No, this was fascinating, honestly! Even better than playing FIFA.”

“I can’t even dignify that outrageous statement with a response,” Niall says in a deadly serious voice.

“Nialler, you twat,” Zayn laughs. “That counts as a response.” Niall throws his napkin in Zayn’s face. It falls to the floor. The passing waiter despairs.

“I’m so sorry,” Liam says to Louis, with his hands on either side of his face, like he’s trying to block out everything that isn’t Louis. “I knew they would be bad. I didn’t know it would be to this level.”

“Yeah,” Louis leans across the table, waggling his eyebrows, “who exactly are these people? They’re ridiculous.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret, I’ve never met them before in my life.”

Zayn throws an arm around Liam’s shoulder. “Hey, now! No need for that game, your Father Tommo hasn’t kicked us out of the restaurant yet, or damned us all straight to hell. We must be passable.”

“I’ve decided that I would definitely keep Niall around,” Louis announces. “Because he obviously knows how to get proper drunk.” Niall fist pumps. “But I haven’t decided about the rest of you yet.”

“So much for loyalty!” Liam exclaims, looking legitimately wounded. Louis smiles at him, but it fades into something more serious. He holds Liam’s gaze, trying to get the message across, because shouldn’t it be obvious by now? He’d decided to keep Liam for himself a long time ago.

It must be written a little too plainly all over his face because Zayn clears his throat and moves to stand up, his chair scraping against the floor.

“Hey, Harry! Niall! I wanted to—er—take some pictures. Outside. Come and help.” The two of them stare at Zayn for a second, slow to catch on. “ _Now_.” Zayn commands through gritted teeth.

“Oh. Oh yeah, right!” Harry’s eyes go wide as realization sets in, and he stands up. “Can I model for your pics?”

“Sure, pretend like you’re Serge Gainsbourg. Come on, Niall,” Zayn beckons. “Come and be Harry’s Jane Birkin.” Niall wrinkles his nose, but stands up anyway.

“You realize I didn’t understand a single thing you just said, right?”

“Come on, Nialler!” Harry teases, looping his arm through Niall’s. “Don’t you wanna go to Hermès and pick out a Birkin bag?”

“Ya know, I really don’t like either of you at all.”

But Niall links arms with Harry as the three of them amble out of the restaurant. Louis is relieved to see that Niall and Harry wait until they’re safely outside to jump on Zayn’s back, half-tackling him onto the sidewalk.

 

The inside of restaurant settles into a quieter rhythm now, the waiters and nearby dining patrons exhaling in relief. The serpentine décor coils in on Liam and Louis, sitting alone now, but Louis doesn’t notice, his senses dulled after a couple glasses of Chablis. Liam leans his elbows on the table, folds his hands together like he’s praying. “They’re idiots,” he declares, as though there’s nothing more to be said, and there really isn’t.

“Absolutely, yes,” Louis chuckles. “Lovely idiots though.”

“Oh god, they’ll want to move on from here, go to another bar,” Liam rubs at his eyes. “Just another opportunity for them to offend people and make trouble. I really should send them back to the flat.”

“You don’t have to play at being their dad, Liam. You know that, right?”

“Someone has to! Or they’d burn the entire city down! You said Paris is indestructible, but I don’t trust those three together,” Liam looks so genuinely concerned and flustered, that Louis feels compelled to reach across the table and rests one hand on top of his.

“Just once, you should try being the one to light the match. Set the fire. Watch everything burn, just for a moment. Just one time.”

“You know, for a priest, you have some awfully strange advice,” Liam flails his arms, knocking Louis’ hand away, and puts on an impression of a Northern accent. (a very bad one in Louis’ opinion.) “Oh, you’ve injured your hand? Rub some dirt on it! Oh, your friends are completely mad? Start a fire! Actually, that’s weird advice for anyone, priest or not.”

“Just to be clear, I didn’t mean for you to take either of those things literally. I never can tell with you.”

“I never can tell with _you_.”

There’s a little wine left in the bottle that Niall hadn’t gotten to, and Louis pours it out between them, making sure they each get an even share. They sit in silence, savoring the last of the wine, and smiling at each other. It’s comfortable, as though they’ve been doing this same thing for ages. Because, by this point, they kind of have been doing it for ages. 

Louis wonders if it’s the wine, or if the lights in the restaurant have suddenly been dimmed. He wonders if it’s the wine, or perhaps a trick of the light, or if Liam’s cheeks really are turning pinker than usual, his eyes shining a little more brightly. It’s a combination of all of these thoughts and questions swirling in Louis’ head that has him imagining what would happen if Liam didn’t send Zayn, Niall, and Harry back to their flat, imagining what would happen if he brought Louis there instead. 

Louis leans back in his seat, and traces a lazy finger around the stem of his wine glass. This is how he imagines it:

Louis holds onto Liam’s hand, letting himself be lead up the stairs, even keeping their fingers interlaced while Liam fumbles around unlocking the door. Once finally inside the flat (strewn with Zayn’s art notebooks, plus Niall and Harry’s suitcases, no doubt) Louis takes Liam by the shoulders and backs him up against the door, just to hear him let out a surprised gasp followed by a hum of satisfaction.

That’s when the two of them finally close the distance between them in a real kiss. They aren’t just saying hello or goodbye, but really tasting each other, licking into each other’s mouths. Kissing Liam in this way is like that first sip of champagne, all fizzy and going straight to your head, knocking you off balance. He trails kisses down Liam’s neck, lingering on his birthmark, listening to Liam trying and failing to catch his breath.

Louis is feeling greedy, he needs to touch more of Liam, all of Liam. He gets a hand between them, sliding down Liam’s chest, stopping to tweak one of his nipples. Liam swats him away at that, but then catches his hand and holds on. Louis continues down with his other hand until, reaching the hem of Liam’s t-shirt, he slips underneath, tracing two fingers along the outline of the muscles etched along his abdomen. All the while Louis bites around his collarbone, feeling rather than listening to the vibrations of the moans escaping Liam’s throat.

Louis pulls off then, taking a small step back, and breaking the handholding. Liam’s eyes fly open at the loss of contact, but neither of them say anything. Louis merely raises one questioning eyebrow while tilting his chin downwards. Liam nods almost imperceptibly, and lets his head fall back against the door with a heavy thud. Louis sinks to his knees. He’s determined to take his time with this, lightly drawing a circle with two fingers around Liam’s crotch, able to tell that he’s half hard already. He undoes Liam’s belt and his flies, shoving his jeans down around his knees, and just takes in the sight of him in his boxer briefs for a moment. (white Calvin Kleins, Louis has seen them peeking out when Liam leans over or raises his arms. Well, it isn’t his fault if Liam is nearly twenty-six and still doesn’t wear his trousers properly)

Then he’s cupping Liam’s dick through his briefs with one hand while biting at the sensitive skin of his inner-thigh. That’s when Liam’s hips really jerk forward for the first time, pushing into Louis’ hand, and then falling back against the door. Louis just smiles, knows he’s being a little bit wicked with his teasing, but he wants to see it. He wants to see Liam’s face when he gets really frenzied, needs to work him up to that point.

But, if Louis has learned anything, it’s that mercy is a virtue and, with that in mind, he pulls the Calvin Kleins all the way down. He places one steadying hand on Liam’s hip and wraps the other around the base of his cock. He starts by licking the underside of it, almost experimentally. Liam’s whole body stutters at that, his hands scrambling to grip at Louis’ hair, and Louis tightens his hand around his hip. He kisses and sucks lightly around the tip of Liam’s cock until it’s swollen and leaking, and Liam is really pulling at his hair now so that it’s painful. That’s when Louis relaxes his jaw and finally takes Liam all the way in.

What is Liam like, when he’s on the edge and tipping over? Is he quiet, unable to breathe, curling in on himself? No, Louis thinks, rather not. Liam is vocal. Liam chants his name—his real name—“Louis” over and over in a litany because, in that moment, Louis is his god. Then his face twists with the ecstasy of it, and he goes completely incoherent, his body tensing and releasing, Louis sucking him through it the entire time.

And that would be enough for Louis. He could tuck Liam back in, zip him up, buckle his belt once again, and have that be the end of it. He’s used to not taking care of himself, hasn’t tended to his own needs in a long time. But, the thing is, Louis can tell that it wouldn’t be enough for Liam.

Liam is strong enough that he pulls Louis up by just the back of his neck. He turns them so that Louis is against the door now. He leans down, kissing Louis hard, tasting himself in Louis’ mouth, and licking away until it’s just the taste of Louis again. Liam strokes one hand on his neck, feeling around for Louis’ collar, undoing the top button. One of Liam’s hands slips into the seam of his unbuttoned shirt, his fingers feeling hot to the touch. Louis has Liam practically smothering him now, kissing him until he can’t breath, until he can’t even stand anymore. But Liam’s supporting him with one arm, and his other hand is snaking up Louis’ chest, really getting in underneath his shirt collar, underneath his skin. And that’s what Louis can’t have happen, at all costs.

Louis can’t come undone.

 

Louis actually jumps a couple of inches off his chair when he feels a hand closing over his wrist. He looks up, and his eyes come into focus on Liam. Because he’s sitting across the table from Liam. _In a public restaurant_. Right. Liam is gripping his wrist and nodding his head to the side with a pointed look. Louis follows his gaze to see the waiter looming over their table.

“Monsieur, vos copains…” the waiter gestures outside to where Zayn, Niall, and Harry appear to be fighting over Zayn’s camera, shouting and pulling it between themselves. They keep accidentally setting off the flash, much to the irritation of patrons seated by the windows.

“Ah,” Louis says in recognition of the problem, “l’addition, s’il vous plait, Monsieur.” The waiter smiles saccharinely and produces the bill from behind his back like a magic trick. He walks away, smile still in place, knowing that he’ll soon be rid of his nightmare table. Liam begins reaching for his wallet, but Louis holds up a hand.

“No, I’ve got cash. Let me get this so we can get out of here as quickly as possible. We can sort it out later.” Louis throws some bills down on the table, making sure to leave as generous a tip as possible, and he and Liam try to make it out of the restaurant with minimal commotion. On the way out, Louis catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrored décor, his reflection split in two by an impossibly curving wooden slat spiralling along the wall.

“Are you alright?” Liam asks, resting a hand on his shoulder when they step outside, and Louis realizes that he’s breathing heavily.

“Yes—er—actually no.” Because Liam has his hand on his shoulder. Louis jumps backward and falls into his old habit of tugging at his shirt collar. “I’m suddenly not feeling very well. That wine…” he trails off because Liam looks genuinely concerned, his brown eyes gone soft in sympathy and, somehow, that softness is slicing right through Louis’ chest. Liam is being so nice. He doesn’t know that Louis has just had some kind of crazed, inappropriate sex fantasy about him. Apparently it really is bad to discuss blowjobs in front of priests. “I’m just going to head home,” he finishes lamely.

A chorus of: “No! Please! You gotta stay out with us!” from the gentle, idiotic, well-meaning three-headed creature greets this announcement, but he honestly can’t humor them. Right now he needs the silence of his bedroom and the familiar feel of his rosary beads between his fingers. It had been a mistake to leave them at home.

“No, really, it was so brilliant to meet you all—”

The three of them are still complaining, but Liam cuts them off with a quiet but deadly: “Back off him, guys.” Louis tries to smile politely up at him, has a feeling it’s coming off as more of a grimace. 

“Au revoir, Liam. Bonne soirée.”

“Au revoir, Father Tommo.”

Louis should’ve expected it, he’d taught Liam to do the whole kissing-as-a-greeting routine, after all. But he can’t manage to reciprocate right now. Louis closes his eyes and doesn’t make the effort to kiss Liam’s cheeks back. But something must be getting to Liam because he seems to be more in Louis’ space than usual, that musky smell clouding Louis’ head. And maybe that’s the reason that he barely registers it when Liam’s mouth slips from his cheek to the corner of his lips.

Louis doesn’t move. His eyes are closed, and he feels Liam’s mouth on his mouth, and he doesn’t move. He doesn’t stop it. He doesn’t stop it because Liam’s lips feel soft and warm, sucking gently on his bottom lip. Louis sways forward into it a little bit. It’s _nice_ standing like this, crowded into each other, forming their own private space. But something is pooling in the pit of Louis’ stomach, and he remembers the coil of a snake.

His eyes snap open. He jerks his head away and pushes at Liam’s shoulders. He sees Zayn, Niall, and Harry—finally rendered speechless—standing behind Liam, framing his face. Louis takes Liam in. He looks a little frightened, but also determined. His eyes aren’t just flickering anymore, something is fully ignited there. Like he had meant to do it.

Liam had meant to kiss him.

And what can Louis say to that? How can he explain that this wasn’t what he had meant about lighting matches and watching things burn? Of course this was something that Louis wanted, _of course_ he wanted to kiss Liam. And his imagination had been right. Kissing Liam is exactly like sipping champagne: a rush of fizz that knocks you off your feet. But it isn’t what he had meant because he _can’t_. They _can’t_. And because the thing that’s going up in flames right now is Louis.

“No!” is what he settles on. He growls out the short syllable in Liam’s face, before turning on his heel and cutting a sharp line away down boulevard Saint-Germain. He can hear multiple voices shouting after him, until it fades to just one voice.

“Louis! Louis, please!” Liam is calling his name, and isn’t at all how he had imagined it. But it’s alright, because he doesn’t go by that name anymore. It’s alright if he doesn’t answer.

+

It’s peaceful sitting inside the confessional, enveloped by the comforting smell of old mahogany. Only a few people have stopped for confession this afternoon, for which Louis is thankful, as it’s given him time to think.

He had returned to his flat last night, switched on the lights, set down his keys, and then immediately picked up his rosary beads. He had recited all of the Mysteries instead of his usual decade, tracing his way around the necklace three times in a row. Louis doesn’t go in for harsh punishment, that isn’t the reason he spent the night kneeling before his bed, rosary beads entwined in his fingers. Rather, it’s that the seemingly endless litany of prayer calmed him with its singular focus. 

He had managed to fall into a fitful sleep for a few hours—throwing his sheets off because he kept dreaming of a too-hot flame licking at him—before coming into the église early, much earlier than he’s used to doing on a Saturday. He had wandered up and down the aisles before settling in front of the votives. Some had been lit for days now, the wick burning dangerously low. Louis had focused on the flame, reminding himself that this is what fire can represent: a prayer. 

Père Nicolas had shuffled in, and Louis had gravitated toward the confessional, volunteering to take over for the afternoon in the hopes that it would give him time to himself. He’s leaning his temple against the cool metal grille of the separating screen when he hears someone fumbling with the latch on the other side, and the door opens. Louis sits up straight and clears his throat a little, just to make his presence known.

“Bonjour, mon enfant,” he says in a gentle tone.

“Er—Père Louis?” Louis sits bolt upright. He’d recognize that almost-not-quite brummie accent anywhere, even whispered in uncertain French inside a confessional. His heart sinks a little at being called the formal “Père Louis.”

“ _Liam_?”

“Oh, thank god. I mean, truly, thank God it’s you!”

“Excuse my French,” Louis hisses through the screen of the golden grille. “But what the bloody hell are you doing here? What if it hadn’t been me? What if you’d got stuck with Père Nicolas instead?”

“Would’ve made an idiot of myself, wouldn’t I? Probably going to do that though anyway now.” There’s a bitter note Louis has never heard in Liam’s voice before. It makes something in his chest tremble.

“Liam,” he puts on a stern voice, mainly to calm himself. “I’m hearing confession right now. This is my job. If you’re going to be in here, you need to have something to confess.”

“I do! That’s why I’m here. It’s perfect actually. Except, well, I’ve never been to confession before.”

“You should begin by saying, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been however many days since my last confession.”

“Oh wow, I thought that was only something they said in films, like The Godfather, or whatever.”

“Well, the films had to pick it up from somewhere, didn’t they?” Louis snaps. There’s a silence from the other side of the grille, and Louis waits, feeling itchy all over.

Just when Louis thinks Liam is about to get up and walk out of the confessional, he speaks up in a measured, considered tone. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.”

“Very good. Now, you should please tell me, in what ways have you sinned?”

“Well, you see, it’s both stupid and quite serious at the same time,” Liam begins. “I spent all this time believing that my friends were troublemakers, that they were the ones who needed to be looked after. But I was wrong. As it turns out, I was the idiotic one all along. I was so busy worrying about them that I forgot to pay attention to my own actions, and I’ve done something kind of awful. I’ve upset someone I really care about.” 

“I’m sorry to hear all of this,” Louis says in as calm a tone as possible. He isn’t really supposed to look through the grille at the confessee, but he can’t help turning his head, staring at the swirling cut-outs that make up the pattern of the grille. He notices that, even in the dim light, he can make out the pink of Liam’s lips.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I just want this person to know that.”

“This person is sorry too. About the entire situation.”

“I knew that it was wrong, to kiss this person. I shouldn’t have kissed them, but I wanted to do it!”

Louis crosses himself, prays that Liam can’t see him doing it. “Liam—”

“No, I don’t care! I wanted to do it. I don’t regret it.”

“ _That_ is the sin.”

“I know,” Liam waits a beat before continuing. “I’m sorry about it. I’m sorry that I put you in an awful position. But I’m not sorry about the rest of it: going for drinks, for bike rides, rendez-vous.” 

Louis isn’t looking at the grille anymore, can’t watch Liam’s mouth forming these words, is barely even listening to him. He’s staring straight ahead at the wooden door, in shock that this life he’s worked so hard to build is being called into question, and for what? Not because of some glamorous, exotic Parisian party. No, it’s not any of that. It’s just this ordinary boy with broad shoulders, and atrocious spelling, and the nicest eyes Louis’ ever seen. This boy—Liam—has somehow taken up all the space in Louis’ life, the blank space in his weekly schedule, the space in his day usually reserved for Hail Marys and Our Fathers, and now he’s pushed his way into the space of this confessional. Louis pulls at his collar and feels that he has finally run out of space. He stands up and unceremoniously yanks open the door.

He’s wearing his full robes today, ivory with gold brocade around the neck and shoulders. It takes Liam a moment, fumbling around with the confessional door, and, when he finally tumbles out, he lets out an audible gasp at the sight of Louis in full regalia. 

“Did you think it was a joke?” Louis hisses, taking a step toward Liam. “That I couldn’t possibly be a real priest because I’m young, and I drink, and I seem like fun?” Liam shakes his head, but Louis is on a roll and can’t stop himself. “It isn’t a joke, Liam. You can’t just show up here, and interrupt my confession. You aren’t baptised, I can’t assign you penance. I’m supposed to say “In the Name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, I absolve you” but I can’t do that. I have no control over you. I can’t absolve you, Liam.”

Liam sets his jaw at this pronouncement. Louis has seen his determined look before, knows that nothing good can come of it. At least, nothing that would be appropriate for the Église Notre-Dame des Champs.

“I’m supposed to tell you to go in peace,” Louis is looking toward the door. “So, that’s what I’ll do,” Louis makes sure he’s looking Liam in the eye now. “Go in peace.” he spits it out like a curse. The _and don’t return_ is understood. 

Liam blinks, his face going completely blank. Not sad, or hurt, or angry. Just nothing. He turns away before Louis can study his face any more. He’s striding across the vestibule, out the door, and, that’s it, he’s gone.

There are other people trickling in, as Saturday evening mass will be starting soon. Louis really should be tending to that now, but he’s rooted to the spot. He’s never snapped like that at Liam before. He’s been teasing of course, always trying to gauge just how much he can poke and prod, but it had been okay, because Liam had pushed back. He had only been legitimately cutting this time because he didn’t know how else to react to Liam pushing too far. Louis thinks that, of all the things he’s done in the past twenty-four hours, watching Liam’s face go blank, and knowing that he had caused it, is somehow the most indecent one. 

Ordinary Liam, with his everyday good looks. Ridiculous Liam, with his accent and his stupid jokes. Liam, who had been taking up too much space in Louis’ life, and now isn’t taking up any space at all. But Louis knows that he didn’t snap because Liam is ordinary. He knows that, actually, it’s the most extraordinary thing when someone lovely like that wants to kiss you, is nice to you, smiles at you, and means it.

+

Louis hasn’t said anything, but everyone can tell that something is awry with him. He walks around with his jaw clenched all the time now, his profile cutting one jagged line. Madame de Clèves brings him extra trays of madeleines and inquires whether he needs anything from the supermarket, if she can help with his laundry, or help with anything at all. For his part, Monsieur de Clèves brings Louis a bottle of his very best Bordeaux, sets it on his kitchen table, and backs out of the flat, unsure of what to say. During lessons, the children stare at him, their eyes narrowed, their mouths slightly open, trying to figure out where the smiling, energetic Père Louis they all know has vanished to. Even Père Nicolas stops him in the vestibule one day and says in an almost concerned tone of voice, that perhaps if he wanted to take Monday and Tuesday off, he’s welcome to do so, no one would notice his absence on those days.

But free time is the last thing Louis needs at the moment. He can’t imagine what he would do, or where he would go. La Coupole is out, obviously, as are the Tuileries and jardin du Luxembourg. He would even rather avoid renting a bike to go anywhere. It’s irritatingly inconvenient, he thinks, cursing himself, that he had brought Liam to his favorite places. 

Fortunately, the église remains a safe haven because he knows Liam won’t return. Louis is there more often than Père Nicolas these days, drawing up actual lesson plans, fussing about with things on the altar, replacing candles that have burned down, doing anything and everything just to keep his focus on the église and the life he’s made for himself there. If he’s avoided hearing confession for the past couple of weeks, that’s his own business, and Père Nicolas hasn’t said anything about it.

Louis is walking down the aisle, having just rearranged the hymnals in the front pews, when he spots a familiar figure wearing skinny trousers lurking in the doorway. He blinks. No, it isn’t _that_ familiar figure, but not far off. It’s Zayn.

“Father T—ah!” Zayn clears his throat. “I mean, Père Louis. I’m really sorry to show up like this. But, do you have a minute?” 

“Of course!” Zayn is standing kind of hunched over, and his eyes keep darting from side to side, as though he’s expecting a lighting bolt to strike him down. Louis gestures outside, figuring that might put him more at ease. “Shall we?” Zayn gives him a grateful nod.

They walk around to a small fenced-in garden at the side of the église. It’s usually reserved for children who need to run off energy after mass, but it’s empty today. Louis sits on one of the benches normally occupied by harangued-looking parents, and motions for Zayn to sit next to him.

Zayn already has a cigarette halfway to his mouth when he seems to think better of it for a second, and asks, “Sorry, do you mind?”

“Zayn, please. This is France.”

“Yeah, I just didn’t know, you know...” he gestures vaguely toward the église.

“Zayn _please_. This is France.” Louis repeats with the hint of a smile, and the action feels almost foreign to the muscles in his face. “Actually, do _you_ mind? Could I have one?” Zayn raises an eyebrow in surprise, but is happy to share. Despite living in Paris, Louis doesn’t often smoke, but something about Zayn’s hesitant posture and the way he had insisted on calling him Père Louis, it makes him feel the need to get on Zayn’s wavelength.

“I suppose I’ll just get straight to the point,” Zayn blurts out. “It’s some awkward shit, me showing up here out of nowhere, and I’ve never been good at small talk.”

“It’s not awkward, it’s fine,” Louis assures, even though it’s actually terribly awkward, mostly because Louis is afraid of what’s coming. “What’s on your mind?”

“First of all, just so you know, kissing you was for sure the stupidest thing Liam has ever done. And there’s some pretty tough competition there.” Zayn really hadn’t been joking about getting straight to the point.

“I’m flattered,” Louis says dryly.

“I mean, doing that in public. In front of us. Mind-blowingly stupid. We all yelled at him a bit afterwards, but then he said he was going to apologize to you, and we thought it might be alright. But, the thing is, when he came back, he was worse. He’s not…Liam. Harry and Niall had to leave, and it’s been just the two of us ever since. I’ve been trying to distract him, but it’s really fucking hard work because he refuses to go anywhere near the Tuileries, which kind of takes up a lot of space in the center of Paris. 

“Sorry, I sympathize, I really do. But I’m not sure what exactly it is that you want me to do?”

“I’m not exactly sure either. We’re leaving in a week, and I have to finish up some research. I can’t babysit him. Liam’s still not himself, and I can’t make it better. It isn’t something I can fix,” Louis takes a pointed drag of the cigarette, giving Zayn a hard look. “I know it’s an impossible situation. I don’t really even expect you to forgive him, that’s none of my business. But, Liam is heartbroken right now and that _is_ my business. Do you see my conundrum?” Zayn shakes his head. “Heartbroken,” he repeats, almost to himself, as though he’s only just realized the full meaning of the word.

Louis attempts to say something, opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He realizes why he’s been keeping his jaw clenched all this time because, now that he’s loosened up a bit, it’s like his face cracks right in half. His eyes feel hot and watery. Zayn takes one look at him and scoots closer, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t sure. I mean, I _know_ Liam, but I didn’t really know you. I couldn’t be completely sure whether or not it was two. Two broken hearts.” Louis doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he merely nods. Zayn gives his shoulder a squeeze before moving away again and giving Louis space.

It turns out that Zayn is the rare type of person who can let a priest cry with some dignity. He lights another cigarette and stands up to examine some of the stonework on the side of the église. After a few moments, he sits back down and makes some notes in a pocket Moleskine notebook. Silence with Zayn feels natural, as though he spends lots of time quietly observing the world around him, something for which Louis is grateful as he tries to discretely dry his eyes and stop his hands from shaking.

Surprisingly then, it’s Zayn who breaks the silence. “Anyway, my whole point is, we’re leaving next week. Taking the train home. We’re leaving on the twenty-ninth.”

“The twenty-ninth of August?” Louis croaks out, as if Zayn could mean any other date. 

“Yeah.”

“But that’s….”

“Yeah.”

_Shit_. 

“I just thought you ought to know,” Zayn stands up, stomping his second cigarette out in the dust and putting away his Moleskine. “One more thing, I know for a fact that he still has your number. He hasn’t deleted it.” Louis is pretty sure that, judging from the embarrassing way in which he’s gaping up at Zayn, it’s obvious that he hasn’t deleted Liam’s number either. “Au revoir!” Zayn calls, giving him a little wave. 

But before opening the gate to step back out onto the boulevard, he turns and looks back at Louis, his eyes shining with concern. Louis knows this look isn’t for Liam’s sake, it’s for him. Because Zayn isn’t the sort of person who would abandon a sobbing priest, and that makes Louis crack a small smile. He gives Zayn a nod and stomps out his cigarette.

Louis’ eyes are completely dry now. He’s going to go back into the église. He’s going to get back in the habit of smiling. He’s going to start hearing confession again. One time, while sitting in a garden, he had told Liam that he would listen to him. And at the very beginning, nearly two months ago, he had told Liam that he and Église Notre-Dame des Champs were there to help. He’s been a lot less than helpful lately, so Louis figures it’s time for him to finally be true to his word.

He spends a few days browsing around some shops in the quartier and thinking things through before finally picking up his mobile and typing out:

_Bonjour, what time is your train on the 29th?_ He honestly isn’t sure if he’ll receive a reply, but his screen lights up within a couple of minutes.

_3 pm_ While it’s difficult to tell tone of voice through text messages, this definitely doesn’t seem like the most friendly text he’s ever seen. Still, it’s a response, so he sends back:

_Rendez-vous outside the St Michel metro, noon ??_

_ouiii_

+

The first thing Louis notices is that Liam is wearing a scarf. He’s wearing his black jacket, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and a mossy green scarf, hanging loosely around his neck. Louis half wants to turn around and walk back down the stairs to the metro because, as it turns out, French Liam is a fairly overwhelming sight to take in. But Liam sees him, and they make eye contact, meaning there’s no going back now.

Louis is carrying a paper bag in one hand, and, with his free hand, he reaches into his pocket and brushes his fingers over his rosary beads (he had made sure to bring them today) to steady himself. He isn’t going to let this be stilted or awkward, so he strides right up to Liam and says, “Hey, we’re taking a little walk, okay?” and inclines his head toward the Seine.

“Hello to you too,” Liam replies, but he seems bemused, as though he’s wondering what else could he have expected from Louis.

“Don’t worry, we aren’t going far,” Louis calls over his shoulder, and he sees that Liam is following him without protest. They cross the street and walk along the Seine. Liam stops to examine the wares the bouqinistes have on display today.

“Still need to get something for my mum,” he explains. He settles on a small vintage-looking print of the Eiffel Tower being built. “She can tack it up on the fridge.”

“Very thoughtful.”

“Shut up,” Liam hisses out of the side of his mouth, but Louis detects the hint of a smile.

 

Louis directs Liam to cross when they reach the pont Neuf. When they’ve made it exactly halfway across the bridge, Louis’ face breaks into a smile and he holds his arms out wide, unable to resist playing the part of a showman. “Our destination!” he declares.

“Here?” Liam twists his head in both directions, and then looks at Louis. Louis knows his eyebrows are going to fold together in uncertainty before it happens.

“Yes, here!” Louis confirms. “This isn’t the exact center of Paris, but we’re close enough. We’re right by the Ile de la Cité. In this direction,” Louis points, “you’ve got Notre Dame. And over on this side you have, well, everything!” Louis spreads his arms out wide again. “There’s the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, and all the bridges. This should really be one of your last views of Paris.” Liam walks closer to the edge of the bridge, resting his hands on the old stone. The Seine rushes beneath them, and un bateau mouche overflowing with tourists trundles along through the water. The seemingly endless number of bridges of Paris stretch out in front of them, connecting the two halves of the city, keeping it in motion. Liam is smiling in earnest now as he takes it all in.

“Okay. Alright. Fair play.”

“Also,” Louis continues in a more hesitant tone. “I’ve got something for you, and being here seems like an appropriate location to give it to you.”

“You got me something?” Liam raises an eyebrow. “Uh-oh, this can’t be good news.”

“Don’t get too excited. No, really, don’t,” Louis cautions, as he hands over the paper bag he’s been carrying. It has a bookstore’s logo stamped across it. Liam opens it, and takes out a pocket-sized book. 

“ _Paris Pratique par Arrondissement_ ,” he reads the cover out loud in a remarkably improved French accent. 

“It’s the best map of Paris, even the Parisians carry it. As you can probably tell from the title, it’s more like a book than a map. It has each arrondissement laid out in detail on different pages.” Liam is staring down at the cover, Louis can’t see the expression on his face.

“Only you would get me a map of Paris the day I leave.”

“You needed a better map!”

“I know,” Liam finally looks up, his eyes shining. “I never got one.”

“I know,” Louis repeats back to him. “Look inside.” 

For a few days after his encounter with Zayn, Louis’ mind had wandered irresistibly to gardens and dangerously curving serpentine pathways. He had thought about the Garden of Eden. Not everyone believes in Adam and Eve, but their names and their story are too deeply etched in the culture of France to simply ignore. Louis had ultimately decided that it was the same with Liam, for better or for worse, his name is emblazoned on Louis’ memory. Louis had decided to embrace their spiralling story and transcribe it the only way he knew how: by literally mapping it out, so that Liam could carry it with him.

“Hang on!” Liam is flipping through the book, beginning to relive the story of his summer. “This page is folded in half—oh.” Liam stops and squints at the page. “I think someone—and I have no clue who could’ve vandalized this poor book in such a way—has drawn a sailboat over the fountain in the jardin du Luxembourg. At least I think it’s a sailboat, it kind of just looks like a wonky triangle.”

“How offensive! That’s an excellent rendition of a sailboat.” Louis crosses his arms, but Liam just continues flipping though the book. 

“I see La Coupole is also marked. Is this supposed to be a wine bottle?” He points to a drawing over the spot where La Coupole should be on boulevard Montparnasse.

“Yes, of course! Well, actually, I started out drawing a beer bottle, but it got too big.” Liam turns more pages and Louis feels antsy “We hardly did anything on the Right Bank, so you’ll have to come back sometime and fill out that area yourself. The Opera Garnier in particular is spectacular.”

Liam looks thoughtful. “I don’t know if I could ever come back to Paris. At least, not for a long time.” he says carefully. Louis feels the impact of this sentence viscerally in his gut.

“That bad, eh?” Louis kicks at the bridge, the ancient stone of pont Neuf unshakeable.

“No!” Liam cries, his voice suddenly husky. “That brilliant.” Louis’ head snaps up, his eyes locking with Liam’s. He feels this too, but in a different way. “I see you’ve drawn a star by pont des Arts in here, which reminds me, I’ve got something for you as well.”

“What?” Louis’ brain can’t keep up. He wants to protest that it isn’t his birthday, but Liam is reaching into his messenger bag, unwrapping something, and Louis _can’t keep up_.

“Yeah, I was almost afraid for a moment that you were taking us to pont des Arts again. But it’s better here. I just mean that, I feel better explaining it to you here,” Liam says, as he hands over a tiny silver key.

“Oh my—Liam! Is this…?”

“Yes,” Liam looks half embarrassed and half something Louis can’t quite read. “I thought about it for a few days after you texted. It wasn’t an accident, was it, that the other lads kept referring to you as “my” priest?” Louis shakes his head, and Liam mirrors him. “Right. But we couldn’t have that, you and I. We couldn’t, _we can’t_ really be like that. But this,” he points to the key, “this is something we can do, yeah?” Louis nods this time, because, yes, this is allowed. “In the end, I agree with what you said, throwing the key into the Seine is a little over the top. Plus, this way, you can hold on to it. I don’t expect you to go find the lock or anything ridiculous like that. There are a million of them, you probably wouldn’t be able to find it anyway. And maybe you wouldn’t want to. But this way, you have the key. You can do what you like with it. Ignore it if you want. But at least you have it.” 

Louis closes his hand over the key, gripping hard until he feels the jagged metal edges digging into his fingers. “What did you put on it?” is the only thing he can think to say. “The cadenas? Did you write anything?”

“That was tough to figure out, actually,” Liam laughs. “I didn’t put our initials because, well, I didn’t know what to call you. Nothing really seemed appropriate. So, eventually I discovered some of Zayn’s paints that he has lying around, and I painted it different colors.”

“Oh! Hang on,” Louis uncurls his fist to examine the key. There are tiny dabs of color dotted along the edge: red, blue, green and yellow.

“I tried to think about what you wear,” Liam explains. “But you typically wear black and white, which I didn’t think would look great. So, I decided on these: red for the awning of La Coupole, blue for the fountain at jardin du Luxembourg, green for the gardens, and yellow for champagne.”

“Champagne?” Louis thinks he might be choking. “As in, yellow label? Liam, are you telling me that you painted our cadenas after a champagne label?” Liam blushes.

“I couldn’t think of anything else! And it seemed appropriate. I—I didn’t much care for champagne before I met you. But now…” he trails off, but his eyes are communicating something ineffable. It hits Louis like a clap of thunder: Liam had tasted the champagne kiss too. 

“Well, I must say,” he says in as steady a voice as he can manage. “I’m touched that you would go to all the effort of sneaking Zayn’s paints.”

“I hope so, because he was pretty damned upset when he noticed I’d gotten his brushes dirty. Apparently he’d just washed them,” Liam shrugs like washing paintbrushes isn’t something with which he’s ever concerned himself.

“I mean it, I—” Louis puts the key in his pocket, and then reaches up to grab Liam’s jacket by the lapels. Louis pulls him close, holds on for a moment, taking in that typical balmy coconut-y Liam smell. He wants to savor it, but not get lost in it. He fixes Liam’s scarf so that it’s hanging more tightly, smoothes down his lapels and backs away. That’s as far as he can touch, doesn’t dare take it further. “There!” he proclaims. “Now you look like a real Frenchman.” 

“Just in time to go back to England!” Liam gives a melancholic little laugh.

“I’m sorry that you’re going.”

“So am I.”

“And” Louis kicks at the wall again before looking Liam in the eye. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you, you know, the last time we saw each other.”

“I deserved it.”

“No! No one deserves that treatment. It wasn’t polite for a priest and, more importantly, it wasn’t okay for us. After everything we’ve done together, it wasn’t okay. I wanted to make sure you knew that. But I also don’t want this to turn into an apology. I mean, our last meeting being just an apology, how boring.”

“Boring! That would be the real sin, wouldn’t it?” Liam’s grinning slyly at him, but then he nods in agreement. “You’re right, an apology doesn’t do it justice. And this isn’t a break up either. I’m not sure what to call it, actually.”

“Not a breakup,” Louis emphasizes. He doesn’t say _you have to be together to breakup_ because what exactly is the definition of _together_? If you have set weekly rendez-vous with someone, and go on champagne picnics, and kiss them in the street, doesn’t it mean that you’re together, in a way? Louis doesn’t say any of that though, thinks it’s understood between them. Instead, he settles on: “It’s—It’s an affirmation. How’s that?”

“An affirmation from a priest? I could do a lot worse.”

“You could probably do a lot better,” Louis says dryly, thinking that Liam might prefer to be taking in his last view of Paris with someone who could really kiss him back. However, Liam appears to have other ideas, as he moves in close, curling a hand around Louis’ neck. Louis feels the burning scrape of stubble along his cheek as Liam whispers in his ear.

“I thought I had already made it clear. There isn’t anything better than this, standing in the middle of Paris with you.”

“Please don’t say that,” Louis whispers it between them. “Don’t say that just as you’re about to leave.”

“I am saying it,” Liam’s tone is wistful. “I am about to leave. And you’re staying,” it isn’t a question. Louis just nods, they both know it’s the truth of the situation. He looks into Liam’s eyes. His gaze has gone as soft as crushed velvet, and Louis wants to live in it. Liam must reciprocate the feeling because he takes a step backward, but doesn’t break eye contact. He backs away like that for a few more steps before starting to turn away.

“Liam!” Louis calls.

“Yes?” He swivels back around. 

“Happy Birthday.”

Liam’s eyes crinkle around the edges, his face practically breaking in half with his smile. “Merci.”

+

The key stays in a drawer where Louis keeps his nice pair of cufflinks from his mum and a set of rosary beads blessed by the Pope. Occasionally he’ll open the drawer when he needs the cufflinks for an event or when his mum is visiting. The key flashes up at him, the dashes of red and yellow paint conjuring up memories of matches, burning flames, and the rush of champagne. 

Louis doesn’t seek out the pont des Arts, but he doesn’t avoid it either. He crosses whenever it’s most convenient, but never stops to linger over the locks. He doesn’t need to see it to know that the cadenas is there—now an irrevocable part of Paris. He can picture the silver metal glinting on the rare Parisian sunny day. And while the paint perhaps fades over time, it’s never completely erased: red and yellow stripes on the outside framing the two blue and green stripes painted across the center of the padlock, two lines running on parallel planes. 

Louis knows the lock is there, because it was the first lesson he had needed to learn back in Seminary. It had been the most difficult thing to wrestle with on a daily basis, but, ultimately, the most rewarding once he had accepted it. Because Louis knows now that faith means being certain that something exists, even when you haven’t seen it for yourself.


End file.
